Abby's Night Out
by JMK758
Summary: Abberotica. Abby finally gets a night to break out of NCIS and find what she's been missing: a hot night with a handsome man, your Favorite. Adult Consensual Erotica. NCis17.


Disclaimer: Belisarius Productions owns NCIS. I don't even own Abby; I'm just having some fun with her and your favorite.

This is a one-shot story having nothing to do with my series 'Superheroine Affair' through 'Assassin'. It is Adult erotica, rated 'T' or NCis-17. Consensual Adult Situations.

Abby's Night Out

By: JMK758

Abby Sciuto sits on the brushed leather stool in the hotel bar; a tiny snifter before her; trying to deny how apprehensive she is. She runs her fingertip around the rim of the almost spherical glass, which still holds a quarter inch of amber liquid, listening to the soft music playing in the background and feeling the anticipation building in her.

She had planned this evening for over a week, and as the day drew closer she could feel her need building. She cannot deny it; initial desire had become need. She knew days ago that she 'needed' to be here, that she could not deny herself any longer; and as the day drew closer and closer she felt the anticipation growing in her like a living thing.

Now the moment is here. She sits on a bar stool in one of the city's most fashionable hotels, and feels her anxiety building until it consumes everything, until it becomes her whole world.

She reaches down, tugging at the hem of her black dress, trying to get the material to cover more of her thighs; but it perversely refuses to cooperate.

The dress, if that word could be used to dignify it, is the ultimate indulgence. She'd had it for years, but it had long graced the back of her closet, hidden behind Goth attire of a vast variety along with the pants suits, modest dresses and jackets needed for court dates and detested all year until it was almost forgotten. But it was always there, teasing and taunting her with its very presence and tantalizing promise; a relic of bygone days; days sacrificed to the demands of the world she would comply – in her own way – with.

To say it is _short_ is to grant it too much dignity. Short is what she wears at NCIS when she is trying to shock her co-workers – the coverage of this one over her thighs can be measured in bare millimeters, and far too few of those. Its black, sleeveless top features a prominent 'V' that delves deep below the level of her full breasts while any reach up will cause her to flash the room; and she dares not relax from keeping her legs pressed tightly together while she sits on the stool. For someone whose lifestyle is characterized by the outrageous, this is _embarrassing_! It is so brief she can feel the edge of the leather seat on her unprotected thighs.

She looks ahead, unable to keep from seeing herself in the mirror, in the space between sorted bottles, and tried to keep a blush from coloring her face. The 'V' is wide enough that if she took a deep breath her nipples would be displayed for anyone who cares to look; and so many seem to. So deep, so generous is the 'V' that all she can think is '_why_?'

x

She picks up the delicate glass, holding it close, gently breathing in the fragrance of the liqueur, the lingering act a more cherished sensation enhancing the eventual taste.

She tries to drown her anxiousness in the soft music playing from speakers above her head, in the quiet conversations that float to her, finally in a last sip of the amber liquid which nips gently at her tongue. She puts the glass down again, seeing the last of it coat the crystal in an almost invisible sheen, falling away as she tried to feel her reserve fall.

She has to force it to fall, pushing it away, because she refuses to back down, to turn away from her unfulfilled need.

Taking a deep breath to steady her nerves, tugging with mild annoyance at the black material which had unveiled her treasures, she very carefully turns around on the rotating stool, surveying the modest crowd at the round tables surrounding her.

She has to be so careful in turning, because twenty minutes ago she had made the ultimate decision, the ultimate commitment to her long anticipated fulfillment. She'd gone into the Ladies room and, with trembling hands, had removed the black lacy thong that had formed the last barrier to her plans, tucking the tiny material, so shockingly small a ball, into her black purse. Returning to the stool, sitting down so carefully on the still warm leather, surprised at the heat through the thinnest of fabric, she is now committed to her scheme. She'd taken the last, the ultimate step. She had decided that she would not, could not, turn back.

Now she looks out over the people surrounding her, past the small, highly polished hardwood dance floor, focusing on the unaccompanied men, thinking of choice, wondering which one would be the one. Her heart begins to pound in her chest and she fights to calm herself, trying not to give her plans away by her mounting stress.

So many men; some rejected in an instant, some not, some instantly selected; but how to make her choice? Or would it be made _for_ her?

x

Long days of celibacy had turned into weeks – unusual for her – until it had become a painful thing that gnawed at her, tore and consumed her as the world – her world – demanded all from her and denied her this. Weeks, _weeks_ of denial until she thought she could not remember what touch felt like, had conspired to drive her here. It had driven her to commit to this; and the decision had become nearly all she could think of until finally she is here; waiting … anticipating … _not ready_!

She looks down at herself, at the way her breasts push the clinging black material outward, at the way it lay so softly across her upper thighs, her _very_ upper thighs, and she becomes so aware that nothing protects her, nothing denies anyone, nothing at all.

x

Turning back half way, she reaches for the small glass, bringing it to her black lips with trembling fingers, but when she tilts it back it only gives the tiniest drop to her. The strong liquid teases her black lips, offering but fulfilling nothing.

"Can I get you another?" She jumps in her skin at the voice of the bartender. She turns completely around, trying not to let her fright show.

"Y – yes." Her voice, which she so desperately wants to be strong and confident, is a quivering whisper.

"What'll you have?"

"Am – amaretto." She takes a deep breath to regain her composure, and is instantly sorry as she sees the man's eyes flicker briefly to her. She makes a show of tugging the overly generous material back into place, covering her left nipple which insisted upon coming out to wink at him of its own accord. "Disaronno." She says more firmly, re-attracting his attention to her eyes. She did not consider him as having made even the first 'cut'.

The white jacketed man pours an inch of amber into her tiny glass, not put out at all by her reserve. He is never at a loss for 'shows' in this job; one loss is insignificant. "Five dollars."

Abby picks up her small black purse, reaches into it, her fingers slipping past her sheer lace panties that accuse her with their touch, closing on the money and a warm hand on the back of hers prevents her from withdrawing it. "I've got this, Harry."

She looks up as the man beside her hands a bill to the bartender. When Abby sees the man, dressed in white shirt and dark suit, his eyes on hers as he turns over the money, she feels the touch of his hand still on hers travel up her arm, through her chest, past her hips and down her bare legs all the way to her toes.

"Thank you." Again her confident tones are drowned in a whisper. With left hand she raises the glass to her black lips and tries so hard to keep her fingers from trembling worse than ever.

"My pleasure." His warm voice flows into her with the liqueur, filling her, tingling even as the amber liquid nipped at her. He removes his hand from hers and his touch lingers. "May I?" He asks, indicating the stool next to hers. It takes her a second, and two tries, but she manages to nod; even as she runs her fingertips surreptitiously over the back of her right hand, trying to erase the touch from her nerves. She only succeeds in rubbing it in more deeply.

"Thank you." She manages to say again, this time in a voice more her own – and has to wonder exactly what she is thanking him for. She manages to look at him now, and decides he is not bad. In fact, he is not bad at all.

No, strike that. The more she looks, the more she realizes this man has instantly shot to the top of her list.

x

Now she really is trembling, but this time deep inside, in places she had nearly forgotten could be moved.

She tries to force herself back under control, but his eyes tear that control from her again.

"What's your name?" He asks in a voice like honey, and she tries to stifle a gasp as she feels it flow over her, flow into her, flow through her. The subtle hint of his cologne caresses the fragrance of the Amaretto.

"Ab – Abby," she tells him with a shy smile wholly at odds with all the plans she had made for days, for weeks. She curses herself. If she does not get herself back under control, she is going to lose this. She _can't_ lose this. Not after coming this far, not after committing herself. She can't! "And you are?"

"Call me Jay."

Abby feels cheated. She'd given up her real name and been rewarded with a lie. And such a patent lie; who's called 'Jay' anymore?

Her eyes flickers briefly, as briefly as she can, to his left hand, but finds no barely visible band of lightened skin about the base of his third finger.

She knows then; recognizes a Hunter. He is on the prowl, just as she is. She had been building to this for days, had felt the need building in her until it had become a force that tore at her, that burned within her, that would not be denied. She'd come here hunting, seeking what she needed. Now she realizes she sits next to another hunter. But which is the prey? Is he to be her prey – or is she to be his?

"So –." _Now_ her voice is high! She forces it back. "So, 'Jay', what's your story?" She tries not to let the word carry everything that is in her mind, but it is hard. Fortunately, he doesn't flinch.

"I'm in town on business for a few days; from the Midwest."

"Do you get into the city often?" She asks over the soft music playing above their heads.

"First time. Unfortunately, I doubt I'll get the chance to come back."

x

There it is. He is telling her in his way that he recognizes she is looking for the same thing that he is when she had come here tonight; a memorable night with someone she would never see again. It remains only for her to say 'yea' or 'nay'.

She turns toward the bar, uncertain. Her plans had been so certain, so definite. Now the moment is here, she knows his mind, and now she isn't sure.

"I'm a bit lonely," he says in that honeyed voice, "and came down looking for companionship."

She looks at him, feeling his suave voice stroking her flesh, and sees the cast of his eyes. She glances down, discovering that seated sideways to him, he has an excellent view of her charms. Half her breast is bare from this angle.

She tugs at the dress; it perversely refuses to give way more than a millimeter.

She looks back up at him. "Is that what you're looking for, 'Jay'? Companionship?"

He stands up, extending his hand to her. "Would you care to dance?"

She looks up and her voice deserts her. Dance? To be close to him? To be held in his arms? To have his body close to hers, hers touching his? To move to the soft music playing above their heads, his body touching hers? Does she?

Things she longs to deny move deep within her, pressing her; emotions and feelings and sensations and desires make the decision for her. She takes his hand, unwilling and scared and longing and needful, clutching her small black purse in her other, trying to hide all her apprehension from him in that clenching grip, stepping away from the bar before she can allow herself to think. In that purse, clutched tightly in her hand, is her last defense; so near and too far.

x

He draws her to him; not demanding, not compelling, just draws her to him, allowing her to resist more than her own body allows her. She does not resist, cannot, anticipation and fear making her heart pound, spicing her blood.

The music is slow; their movement is slow, and as she feels the warmth of his body against hers, feels the flow of the brief black dress caressing her body she becomes anxiously aware that it is the only thing separating her nudity from him. Even her lacy black thong, a so tiny ball stuffed into her purse, would not have been anything between them. Abby feels her heart pounding, his body briefly touching hers in teasing, tingling contacts and she is utterly nude.

His body is too warm when it touches hers, the feeling better than it should have been. His arms about her, his body touching hers; do things to her familiar and joyous and regretted for their pleasure. The barely discernable scent of his cologne ignites feelings she wants to deny, but which her body will not.

She looks at him and is unprepared – no, she is prepared and anticipating and needing – when he presses his lips to hers.

x

She knows she should pull away. It is too fast; _he_ is too fast. This should not be! She should pull away, she should slap him; she should not feel what she is feeling throughout her body. She should not feel or admit to or give in to the sensations that flare through her, that tear through her restraint and control to burn her heart and her soul.

Decisions become nothing, desires and plans and anticipations become nothing. She knows, in these eternal moments, that she had come here as predator; now she is _prey_.

His undemanding lips taste of promise, of fulfillment, of tastes she thought she'd forgotten. She presses her own lips to his, can not help but tell him of her need.

Moments later his lips slip from hers and touch warmly to her neck as he holds her closer, moving to music she could barely hear. Her breasts are pressed to him, and every movement sends flares of pleasure through her.

Sensations sear her as his lips nuzzle her throat, erotic thrills electrifying her like bolts of lightning all the way down to her toes, igniting things she'd denied for so long, buried for so long, forgotten for so long. She tries to say something but only a soft moan can escape her lips, and with that moan of admission she knows she has lost.

Her breath grows fast, grows hard as her chest starts to heave, her sensitive breasts rubbing against his chest through the thin cloth as his gentle, undemanding touches attack her mercilessly. She is held victim in his arms, her long building desires blazing within her, breath she dares not breathe aloud reduced to moans of savage lust.

It goes on forever and ever until ultimately she feels his soft words as vibrations against her soft flesh. "I've a room upstairs."

x

A last twinge of fear, all but obliterated in the inferno he kindled, allows her to push back. But even as she pushed her upper body away a few scant inches, her hips are pressed to his with a willingness her mind denies and her body demands. She meets his eyes, this predator, this man on the prowl, and her words come out as barely a gasp; "I'm not a slut."

Even to her it sounds like a lie.

She cannot ignore how the dress she barely wears, the dress she'd chosen, accuses her; how it denies her protest. Her quivering whisper is barely a breath, her denial a tiny thing nearly lost in the fire that sears her.

He draws her back, continuing to dance so decorously with her, the touch of his body doing things to her absolutely terrible and delicious. His lips find her neck, this time her other side. Her cry is so tiny, her moans so soft; but as he continues, the searing flames burning her helpless body, she can not breathe, can not fight. She had come as predator; now she is _prey_!

x

"I've a room upstairs." He whispers again, his hot voice tingling through her body, seeing to flow through her to tingle in one special spot. This time, though she tries to say no, she feels her head nod sharply.

She tries twice, three times, _four_ times to say it. Her every breath is stolen in moans, and finally she manages to gasp her answer. "Yes!"

x

They leave the bar, but he never lets her go, never lets her have an instant to reconsider, his hands on her as they walk so decorously through the bar keeping her fire blazing so hotly that even though she tries to think, to resist, to go back, she can not. She did not _want_ to resist. She'd come here for this, made her choice, and can not back out.

She _will_ not back out.

In the elevator his lips find hers, ignited passion no longer denied or hidden, his hands caressing her burning body making her want to scream as she longs in turn to tear at his clothing, her gasping breath loud in the car. She reaches for him, need overwhelmed by desperation; fulfillment in sight. Everything she'd denied herself for months is coming out in a searing inferno; the conflagration stealing her mind, burning away her last thoughts of apprehension, turning her hesitations to ash as she gives and takes and needs more!

The steps to his room are a torturous quest of a few feet; he barely gets his key card into the door and her through it before she is tearing at him, restraint and apprehension and control abandoned. She can't even try to stop; won't even try. Everything she had restrained for months is burning through her until she feels she will explode in a passionate inferno!

He presses her back against the wall, trapping her, his body pressed hotly to hers, his open mouth to hers, their tongues dueling and he gets his hands between them and she is shocked as he pulls hard, her dress ripping loudly. He pulls away just far enough for her to look down as he yanks hard, her dress tearing all the way to the brief hem, pulled widely apart and tugged down her arms, falling to the floor. All she wears are her black high heels and, incredibly excited by his force she throws her naked body into his; they embrace in mounting passion as she tears at his clothes, ripping them as her long pent up passions drive her, finding release. She tears as hard as she can, even pinned to the wall, his hands all over her scorching body, invading her even as she tears at the fabric between them, having no mercy or restraint for this man who would –

He pulls her from the wall, turning her and pressing her toward the bed, both their naked bodies toppling upon it, he pinning her down on the yielding mattress as she pulls at him, opening herself to him, taking – needing – yearning – _attaining_, clamping her own hand over her mouth to muffle her shriek!

xxx

Abby lies on the wide bed whose pillows, blanket and comforter were long lost, utterly content in the man's arms as he holds her; gently stroking her down from the mad shrieking frenzy that had consumed her. This she appreciates so much; there are so few men who know how important it is afterwards just to be held and eased down from the madness. She feels lucky to have found him.

"_Thank_ you." She breathes, cuddling deeper into his embrace. She can not remember the last time she had been so utterly, completely grateful to any man. She feels totally relaxed, monumentally satisfied, more contented than she had been in months.

He smiles at her, equally satisfied. "You destroyed my best suit, you know."

She grins. "Serves you right for wearing your best one; a man like you picking up strange women in a hotel bar. Besides," she hits his arm, "you tore my dress in half!"

"You've always hated that dress, that's why you packed it along with tomorrow's clothes." He 'reminds' her, referring to the black suitcase at the foot of the bed.

He reaches behind himself, drawing the blanket off the floor to spread over them. Its initial coolness quickly succumbs to their heat.

"Get some sleep."

"I'll sleep for a week." She sighs, snuggling closer, reveling in his warm body.

"I've got a 6:00 wake up call, have to be in on that Johnson case," he is relieved he'd packed more than one suit, "but you don't have to hurry. Check-out's at ten."

She shakes her head. "I'd love to, but we both know I have to have the lab ready in case something happens."

"NCIS is a hard mistress."

"See you in the morning." She assures him, cuddling closer as he turns off the light.

He kisses her lovingly. "I can hardly wait."


End file.
